Red Carpet

Although I have no objection to the pulling of U.S. forces from Afghanistan, I expect the consequences to be disastrous. Remember when the action was referred to as “The Good War.” I don’t know that anything was accomplished in the 20 year engagement. Maybe bad actors that would have terrorized other areas were preoccupied, killed. I still believe we should have elite units on standby in the area ready to carry out lightning attacks against perceived global threats.

Thinking I’d be stuck in the house all day because of foul weather, I worked on a short story this morning. It may be the last piece of fiction I ever write, which I thought of my recent novella, Class of ‘67. The title is Red Carpet. I had fun lampooning current trends. It would no doubt offend leftists, and one particular aspect may get the piece banned if the folks who moderate the blog see it. I doubt I’ll do anything with it unless by some miracle story ideas start flooding my way, enough for a collection. Most of it is dialogue. I’d guess it’s a less than ten-minute read.

Microphone in hand, the handsome, dark-haired young man in a white suit and red tie smiled broadly as a young woman approached, BLM and Antifa buttons pinned to her chic black dress.
“Hey everybody, it’s Melissa Clarissa, star of the big and small screen, here to set us all straight.”
“Hi, Ian — how’s your inherently racist white ass?”
He threw his head back and laughed. “Still doing penance. You look stunning, by the way. What are you working on these days?”
“A very timely project on the positive effects of defunding the police.”
“Excellent. It’s great to see you again. I know you’re anxious to get inside.”
As he leaned forward to kiss her cheek, her burly bodyguard stepped forward, impassive look on his face.
Face reddening, Ian quickly recovered. “Hey, folks, we’re live, embarrassing moments and all.”
A buzz went through the onlookers as a bearded man in a pink tux emerged from a limousine. His perfectly coifed haired was dyed blond.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the one, the only Rex Rodman.”
“Have I got a scoop for you, my man. Tequila has emboldened me. Where’s the camera?” He spotted it and looked at it directly. “You’ve heard the rumors for years, folks. I now confirm them. I’m officially out of the closet.”
There was a smattering of applause.
“Whoa! So it’s true — you suck dick and take it up the ass. Gee, that’s really great. Your courage is an inspiration. All the best.”
Rodman walked away. Ian was speechless a moment.
“Wow! Are we off to a rocking start or what? What’s next?”
Another limo pulled to the curb and an elegant couple emerged.
“We are in the presence of royalty, my friends. Welcome Hollywood’s King and Queen, the dashing Sam Hammer and the gorgeous Monica Buffay.”
The crowd cheered. The stars waved.
“I want you to know,” said Hammer, “that that vehicle is fully electric.”
“Awesome. We can always count on you to do what’s best for the environment. How are you, Monica?”
“Running on fumes. I just got in on a private jet from our New York location. I wouldn’t miss this for the world. It’s always so much fun. Let the drinks flow!”
“Indeed.” Ian turned to Hammer. “How’s that new oceanfront property? Will you build a wall to protect it from the rising seas you’re always citing?”
“Now you’re being silly. Where’s the bar?”
He took his wife by the arm and led her away. Ian looked at the camera and said: “”Is it any wonder they’re so popular? Absolutely charming.”
Another limo rolled up.
“The stars keep coming,” said Ian. “Who will it be?”
When the door opened a cloud of marijuana rose into the air, as well as collective laughter.
“Is it…? Can it be?”
A tall young man in white tie and tails stepped out of the vehicle, paused, and took a deep hit on a joint. His blond dreadlocks fell well beyond his shoulders. The crowd cheered.
“Yes, it is — sporting a totally new look — Lars Mars.”
Mars folded his arms against his chest, tilted his head a bit, and looked at Ian. “What’s up, white bread?”
“You’ve outdone yourself, my man.”
“Well, you know how it is. Just like it says on the side of the cans of that famous soft drink company that refuses to sponsor my tour: ‘Be less honky.’”
Some one shouted: “Cultural appropriation.”
“CRT, baby. Get woke and all that jazz. And now the coup de gras, brothers and sisters — my date for the evening, world famous adult film star Mindy Melons.”
Her emergence was greeted with howls from the males in the crowd. How in the world those humongous breasts did not break free from the skimpy red dress was a miracle of modern science. Mars looked into the camera.
“Eat your heart out, America.”
The couple walked toward the entrance.
Chuckling, shaking his head, Ian said: “Every time I think we can’t possibly top something, we do. Time to pay the bills and catch our breath. Back in a few. Stay tuned.”

Wow, did Mother Nature cooperate today, clearing out the storm by late morning, allowing the floating book shop to operate. My thanks to gentleman who bought two medical books and Puzzle Tov!: A Collection of Jewish brainteasers, puzzles, and enigmas to drive you totally Mesghugenneh! by Peter Weisz; and to the woman who purchased five DVDs.

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